Counting Down to Normal aka Normal is Overrated
by waterytart
Summary: BtVSSe7en crossover. set in Normal again universe. After the John Doe killings, David Mills is sent to a mental institution.. focus on the characters David and Buffy.. Chapter Two up and a name change, formerly known as Normal is Overrated
1. Prologue

**N o r m a l i s O v e r r a t e d**

BtVS/Se7en crossover

Spoilers BtVS: 'The Gift' though to 'Normal Again'

Ship: David Mills/Buffy Summers

Author's Notes: Normal again opened up so many avenues for fanfic and crossovers, I've got about a million ideas floating around my head (pushing out all the actual useful information) there's even a half written Spuffy fic on my hard drive waiting to be completed and has been waiting ever since the episode first aired. Oh well.

BTW, I know close to nothing about mental illness and most things I'll be making up, so if I slip up here and there be sure to tell me, mock me, belittle me for my lack of knowledge.

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**p r o l o g u e**

nobody has to stay – _Mirah_

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_Four months. Three days. Sixteen hours. Twenty-three minutes._

"How're you feeling today, Mills?"

David stares outside of his passenger side window (it was already spring? He hadn't even noticed the passing of winter) hating the forced, overly polite small talk between he and his friend.

_The weather's been pretty mild this year, hope it holds out till summer._

_Did you bring everything? Comb, toothbrush . . ._

He hates it almost as much as the things that were being left unsaid.

"Fine. I feel fine Somerset."

_I'm not fine though. All I want to do is go back to my apartment and curl up in bed with her pillow. Did you know it still smells like her? Did you know that I sometimes sit in the dark waiting for the subway to rattle the walls and drown out my thoughts and I can almost pretend she's there, just in another room maybe. Humming off-key as she makes dinner, but oh God, when the cups and saucers stop rattling all I'm left with is silence, Somerset. _

_And it breaks me. _

_I just, I wish. . ._

"That's good," Somerset says in that soft gravelly voice of his, "That's good."

David can feel Somerset throwing him furtive glances every now and then, but he doesn't take much notice of his ex-partner. He doesn't take much notice of anything except that he's on his way to a mental institution, mostly against his will.

It's funny. He had been in the city for less than a month before the his wife's death, he had been in therapy because of that death for longer, not so much funny, more like tragic. And not the everyday I-have-cancer kind of tragic either, more like Shakespearian tragic - _Days of Our Lives_ melodramatically, unbelievably tragic. The kind of tragic that no one in real life should have to endure.

"We'll be there soon."

It had been four months since the end of the John Doe killings _(Four months. Three days. Seventeen hours. Two minutes.)_ David wasn't ever charged for the shooting and was back at work less than a month after the events, which was a mistake everyone now knew, because a month wasn't so much time for someone to recover from something like that.

It had been four months since Tracy and their unborn child's murder, yet it felt like a year, a decade, a lifetime.

_We never talked about kids, I always assumed we would eventually have them though, maybe further on down the track, when we would have settled into our new life. When Tracy got a job - when I got a promotion - when we had time to paint the spare room together._

_We'd have one of each of course._

_I had their names planned out already, did I ever tell you that, Somerset?_

_Thomas and June, after my grandfather and Trace's aunt._

_I wonder which name we would have had to use._

"This isn't about punishment David, you know that right?" Somerset asks suddenly because he can't take David's silent statue act any longer. He needs to make Mills understand.

"God knows that son-of-a-bitch deserved everything he got, but you need to do this."

Because he sees it. Sees his friend slowly deteriorating.

Because all he wants is for the obnoxiously energetic Mills that was so sure he could make a difference in the world to break through the sorrow and hurt and get on with his life. It was completely unfair of Somerset to feel that way, but it didn't stop him from feeling it.

Because if that Mills was gone forever, what hope was there for him?

David doesn't bother to tell Somerset that no, he really didn't need to be institutionalized; put away because of his predilection for breaking furniture.

And yes. Sometimes the furniture breaking happened to be on drug-dealing-scum faces (when they were clearly lying through their speed-chomping teeth) but he didn't need to be monitored twenty-four seven and he certainly didn't need some head-doctor telling him he was mourning. He knew all that, he knew he was channeling his grief into unhealthy rage but he didn't need to be put into a mental hospital because all he really needed, was his wife back.

"It'll only be a couple of weeks, a month at most, but I know you need this break, as much as you might—"

"Is that what they're calling it now?" David interrupts, his words sounding as hard as his gaze, "A break?"

William stops at a red light and turns to his friend with sad understanding eyes that make David want to punch the look right off of Somerset's perceptive face.

"It wont be so bad, David," William says finally in that rich, soothing voice of his.

"Then why don't you 'voluntarily' commit yourself too then?"

David blinks, tightens his jaw and turns back to stare blankly out of his window, pretending he didn't see the way William's face seemed to cave in on itself at his harsh words.

Somerset sighs to himself and turns back to the road.

"It wont be so bad," he repeats softly.

_Four months. Three days. Seventeen hours. Twenty one minutes._

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	2. Chapter One

AN: Thanks muchly to my beta OperaAngel, who did a great job!

I'm fixing my folio right now which is taking me forever, that might be a good or bad thing because I always seem to write when I'm at my busiest (me being the procrastinator I am) but also might mean I'm actually doing my proper work. Basically, just be patient with me because I have a set outline in place so I know where this is going, just not much time to write it.

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**C h a p t e r O n e **

Cannonball – _Damien Rice_

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_Four months. Three days. Twenty one hours. Thirty four minutes._

David doesn't like how doctor what's-his-name keeps referring to Somerset instead of him, as if he wasn't even in the room, mentally if not physically. It was demeaning, like he was a school-boy sent to the principle's office after they'd called his parents.

_Your son has a problem with authority it seems, he doesn't like being told what to do and he doesn't play well with the other kiddies._

David is overcome with the sudden urge to swing his feet out and launch himself onto the floor in a tantrum, but slouches in his chair at the rebellious impulse instead.

"Mr. Mills?"

Both what's-his-name and Somerset are looking at him now, waiting for an answer to a question he hadn't bothered listening to. If this was the real world, back at the station or somewhere where it mattered, David would have had the decency to look embarrassed at being caught out in his moment of distraction, but here it didn't seem to matter. They already thought he was crazy, he might as well live up to their expectations – get into a bathrobe and start drooling; because what was the use, really?

"Mr. Mills, are we all in agreement?" doctor whosit asks expectantly.

David shrugs noncommittally and looks out of the window over the doctor's shoulder.

"Okay, I guess we're pretty much done here then. If you could sign these documents Mr. Mills we can get started on settling you in." the doctor says handing the documents over to Somerset to look over them first. The action doesn't go unnoticed by David but he chooses to ignore it, thankful for it rather, he isn't sure he could even pretend to be interested in what the documents said.

"I hope you won't think of this as a prison David. If anything it should be more of a retreat for you," David remains stoic in the face of doctor dot dot dot's proud smile, and vaguely thinks the doctor missed his calling as a hotel concierge.

After the formalities that require David's signature over half on dozen pages (_and initial here, here and here_), a nurse is asked to show the two to the ward David will be calling home for the next month or so.

David counts thirty four doors on his way to the ward, passes two quacks in white coats, five baby-sitters rolling around trays of food and meds, and a room full of crazies watching _Wheel of Fortune—_and the nurse had talked the whole way there.

". . . and you'll find the nurses station down the hall from the long-term patients ward on your right, if you have any problems and you can't find the nurses assigned to your area you can always find someone there. We do try to make this facility, more like a home rather than a hospital. Oh! And if you keep on following this hall, you'll get to the gardens which are just beautiful in spring, you know . . ."

David vaguely wonders if the nurse even needs another person to have a conversation.

Beside him, Somerset smiles and nods at the appropriate intervals; he is polite and courteous like he has been all day; it makes David want to throw up all over his well-mannered shoes.

He's not sure he can take much more of Somerset, it's not so much that David resents his friend for taking responsibility for him since the not-so-accidental-breaking-of-the-junkie's-face incident, at times like this he's even grateful for it. But there was also his pride telling him that Somerset shouldn't _have_ to look after him, he was a grown man after all. He could handle his affairs well enough. Just because he chose not to at this particular moment didn't mean he _couldn't_.

"They're all, very . . . informative here aren't they? It looks like this is a well run facility," Somerset comments after they reach David's room and are finally left alone.

"Regular _Ask Jeeves'_."

"David," Somerset sighs his name like he wants to say something more, but instead stares at his ex-partner with his patented cop look. The kind that made wife-beaters sweat and pick-pocketers pee their pants, but makes David feel like the sarcastic-twelve-year-old he was acting like.

"Are you going to take this thing seriously, David?"

He doesn't know how to answer Somerset because he still hasn't made up his mind about that. He hasn't really accepted that he's here for an undetermined amount of time, hasn't accepted that he might not have a job when he finally did come out.

"Did you hear me, David?"

The time between now and Tracy's death didn't even seem to be real to him, as if it was just a nightmare (the smoking gun in his hand, the ride back to the station from the wrong side of the caged police car, the statement given to the media, the funereal, the anger, the quick-fix therapy, the tedious hours of paperwork, the arguments with anyone over anything, the empty apartment, the face-breaking, the long car ride to a nut-house, the too-white walls he was currently staring blankly at) a nightmare he was just waiting to wake up from.

Because he _had_ to wake up.

So if he was going to find himself tucked up in bed, curled up around his wife any moment now, how was he supposed to take being put into a hospital seriously?

"David?"

How was he supposed to take any of this seriously?

_David?_

_David?_

_David, it's so dark here, why won't you answer me?_

_David, why weren't you there? Why didn't you stop him?_

_He hurt me, David, it still hurts, where were you? _

_Where **are** you?_

David wakes up in a cold sweat and feels the tears pooling into his ears, his hair sticking to his forehead and the blanket tickling his toes as it lay in a heap at the bottom of the bed.

The dream is already fading in a blur of images and sounds, but the feeling, oh God, the feeling that she was - just - there, is torturous enough to make him stagger to the bathroom and dry heave into the toilet bowl. It's almost as bad as actually throwing up – taking in large gulping breaths of toilet bowl air, it's a vicious cycle that makes his eyes sting.

"Mr. Mills?" a voice accompanies a soft knock at his room door sometime later.

Staggering out of the bathroom with a cold towel to his neck, David only sees the outline of a person's head peering into the room from the gap of the slightly opened door, the bright lights in the hall backlighting them against the darkness of his room.

"What is it?" David croaks sitting heavily on his bed.

Turning on the light, the nurse blinks owlishly at him before smiling as a blush blooms across her cheeks, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to disturb, I mean – that is to say – I was asked to remind you, you have your first session with Doctor Warren at ten."

The young woman quickly closes the door behind her, leaving David slightly disoriented and confused wondering what the time was (the blush and the hasty escape explained when he remembers he was only half dressed in a pair of low riding pajama bottoms.)

The stuffiness of the room suggests it's later than he thought, the glowing numbers of his digital clock confirmation that it's closer to his appointment with his new head-doctor than he would have liked.

Would it really matter if he just didn't turn up? The doctor probably wouldn't even notice if he did, he might even be thankful for the early lunch break, and it wasn't like there would be any real consequences – what could they do?

Put him in a mental institution?

David lays back onto the bed with his face nestled in the crook of his arm ignoring the soft sounds of people shuffling past his room, his thoughts drifting back to the dream he had woken from that morning. He couldn't remember much if it, the details disappearing from his mind as dreams were wont to do, but the echo of Tracy's voice saying his name, whispering across his mind seemed to be important somehow. There was something that he needed to remember, something in the way she had said it – but the more he concentrated, the further away it seemed to be.

David later blamed this moment for the slow torture that would be his first session with his doctor; without anything better to do than have his mind go round and round in circles chasing answers he didn't have, he found himself dressing half-heartedly and walking the doctor's office before he even knew it.

"Why do you think you're here, David? Is it okay if I call you David?" the doctor asks after the initial introductions.

"I have a choice do I? I'd prefer Detective Mills if it's all the same to you."

The doctor smiles at David, as if he was expecting a similar answer if not the exact one he gave, "Alright Detective, why is it you're here?"

David contemplates leaving the question hanging in the air but the silence with someone else in the room is worse than when he's in his room alone – the doctor's stare making him want to squirm in his seat and spill all his secrets.

"Something to do with a chair, and a junkie's face, if I had to guess."

The doctor's maddening smile stays firmly in place as he writes something on his pad.

"Let's talk about that then."

"There's not much to say, I lost my temper and hit a guy with the closest thing that was at hand, it just happened to be a chair."

"And you don't feel that was an overreaction?"

David finds himself staring at the doctor, assessing him with his eyes, trying to figure out the best way to communicate with him that meant he was left alone like he wanted. He figured the doctor wouldn't be a push-over like his last therapist, would probably see through anything that wasn't the complete truth if the looks he was giving David was anything to go by. But that also meant David felt less inclined to talk to him.

In the end he figured the truth, but with the least amount of information he could give would be the best way to go.

"Look, lets just cut to the chase; I know I have anger managements issues, I know it stems from the recent death of my wife, one that I feel responsible for, and I also know you'll tell me it wasn't my fault and I should just move on but we both know that's just bullshit platitudes."

"Well, it seems you know a lot, Detective," the doctor says after a short, contemplative pause.

"I've had to endure therapy before this."

"Ah yes," he says rummaging around on his desk to find David's file, "You were with a Doctor. . . Ryan?"

David only vaguely remembers the doctor he was given after the events of the John Doe killings; a skinny graduate who was thrilled to find out that David's father beat him at a young age (a story he made up on a whim at the start of his sessions with her) and had been so gullible and eager to match his temper tantrums to something she could find in her text books, he was usually able to her divert attention to that 'issue.'

By the time he had 'come to terms' with the abusive relationship with his father, his grief and the issue of his explosive temper had been glossed over with _"it wasn't your fault,"_ and _"with your background of violence, it's understandable you would react the way you have," _and within a month she had deemed him mentally healthy (it was the lie that had just kept on giving.)

"Sure, I guess."

The doctor frowns as he reads through some more papers in the file which gets a smile out of David; he wonders what the graduate had to say about him.

"Well, Detective, we only have a few moments left before my next appointment, but you should know that I'm here for you to talk to. I know there's a lot to get through, some of it," he pauses and looks down at the file again briefly, "I'm sure is involved, but you can talk about anything you want to in these sessions, it's what I'm here for."

There's a knock at the door and, before David can respond, a nurse pops her head in with the doctor's call, "Your next patient is waiting outside, Doctor Warren."

The doctor nods and turns to David, "So, it looks like we're scheduled to meet every Tuesday, Thursday and Friday, I'll see you later on this week then."

Opening the door for David the doctor greets his next patient with a warm smile. The detective notices that the nurse hands her over to him like a baton in a relay race, "She's been doing well today, much more lucid and even talking a bit now and then."

David watches from the doorway as the doctor and nurse fuss over the patient they're handling like blown glass, the blonde seemingly ignoring most of what's going on around her as if in her own world.

As he closes the door behind him and walks towards his wing, David distractedly listens to the doctor's muffled voice drifting through the air.

"I'm glad to hear you're doing better, Buffy."

_Four months. Four days. Ten hours. Twenty-eight minutes._

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Questions? Comments?


	3. Chapter Two

There's been a name change if you haven't already noticed. In other news I have a job now (woo hoo!) I'm not sure how that will effect the time allocate to writing, well see.

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**C h a p t e r T w o **

Inside – _New Buffalo_

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_Four months. Eleven days. Eighteen hours. Fifteen minutes._

David's eyes sweep across the rec-room disdainfully, with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face his misery is clear for anyone who cares to look. Not that anyone is, they're all bent over their handiwork busy restraining themselves from eating the glue to take much notice of him.

He doesn't blame any of the crazies though, after over a week of these craft lessons he was wondering if he could overdose on a bit of PVA, as it is, he can't imagine anyone coming out of here any saner than Charles Manson on an off day. He'd been contemplating blowing up the whole facility for the last half hour if it meant he'd never have to go to another craft class, ever.

". . . It's just as simple as wiping area of any excess varnish and you're done. Good job everyone! You're all doing wonderfully, and just think, once you've finished you'll have a lovely souvenir of your time here."

David knows a handful of different ways to make a bomb with just the things sitting in front of him, it's gratifying going over each step of the process in his head as the crazies around him cut and paste (the towels and paper for the fuel – varnish for the accelerant – in an sealed container and placed near that supporting column . . .)

Not that he's a psychopath, but the image of the rec-room reduced to rubble is all that's getting him through these sessions.

"David, you haven't even started on your project," his current baby-sitter says with accusation tingeing her voice.

"I'm not really in a decoupage mood."

"Oh David," the detective's scowl deepens; he's starting to hate the sound of his own name, "What will it take to get you to participate?"

David stares at the volunteer in front of him like she's the embodiment of stupid as she smiles on hopefully; what would it take to get him excited about sticking pieces of paper to a toilet seat?

The detective shrugs dispassionately as he answers truthfully, "A bottle of scotch."

_And a gun to the head._

"Now David, you know they don't allow any alcohol here, but," she says a blossoming grin; David could see the proverbial light bulb appear above her head, "I could maybe bring some cider the next session," the blonde continues, tapping the side of her nose, "just between you and me though, I'm not usually allowed to bring things from the outside."

"Great."

David didn't think he could be any more unenthusiastic.

The volunteer smiles like she has accomplished something and shifts her attention to rest of the room as the detective quickly loses interest.

_Fifth window on the left: slightly ajar._

There isn't much else in the room to catch David's interest though, he's already spent countless hours staring up at the same ceiling, his eyes follow the path of cracks that branch across from one side to the other as elaborate escape plans run through his mind.

_There's only one other baby-sitter that occasionally walks past through this room, probably to check none of the loons had stuck their head to the table. _

_. . . But he could totally take her._

It's not that he thinks he would ever use any of the plans his active mind creates, like the bombs he knows he can make now if he just slipped the small canister of varnish into his pocket to join Tracy's wedding ring and the few strands of her hair he always keeps on him (no, definitely not a psychopath) but with little else to do other than talk to himself about the day's weather there wasn't much else to keep himself occupied.

_Between the time the volunteer leaves and the next activity leader arrives there's a ten to fifteen minute gap, so if he could somehow get to the window without anyone noticing. . ._

"Oh Buffy, what am I going to do with you?" the volunteer says from somewhere to David's left, the disappointment in her voice carrying all the way to where the detective sits wondering if the nurses keeps any subduing agents on them.

Buffy.

David has been hearing the ridiculous name all over the place. When he wasn't contemplating escapes or thinking about Tracy (except he's always thinking about Tracy) David likes to listen, and the nurses like to talk. Whether it was about things that were going on on the outside or about the patients around them, the name Buffy seemed to come up a lot in conversation and David doubted there could be more than one _Buffy_ in the hospital. He doubted there could be more than one Buffy in the whole of the state.

Buffy.

In a hospital full of crazies, this _Buffy_ sounded like she was that gerbil loonier than the average –

"Between you and David, I don't know what I'm going to do."

_What?_

"David refuses to even start and he's so anti-social," the volunteer sighs despondently, "and I'm not sure if you even hear me."

Even if she couldn't, _he_ certainly could and David didn't appreciate being talked about like he's the problem child in the class. Like he's the stinky kid that doesn't know he smells like something crawled up and died in his pocket while standing in the corner picking his nose – he knew there was a reason why he hates this class more than any of the others.

When David expresses these feelings to Doctor Warren in his next session, the doctor just smiles and writes something down in his pad, a scene David is getting used to.

"And do you think you're anti-social?"

"I think it's more of a case of not having anyone to socialise with."

"Have you made the effort to socialize with anyone here?"

"Honestly Doc, I can't tell who's crazier, the patients or the babysitters. The blonde thing yesterday wanted me to decoupage a toilet seat."

If David had have been looking he would have seen the doctor suppress a grin behind his hand as he pretended to scratch his moustache, but the detective was too busy looking around the room noting the air vent that looked big enough for a person to crawl through in the bottom corner of the room to the left of the doctor's desk.

"You think there's no one here you can connect with?"

"Well, there is the guy with the twitch," David quips.

"Oh, I wouldn't get too close Detective, he's _really _crazy." Doctor Warren counters.

David isn't sure what to make of his doctor, he made jokes and seems easygoing enough, they might have even been friends out in the real world, but in all four of the sessions he had had with him, the doctor's eyes would continue to have that glint, like he already knew all of David's secrets. It was like he was just waiting for the detective to open up and tell him – it had the uncanny ability to make him completely comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time.

"There's that girl though," David says thinking back to their original subject, "The one in the craft class. Buffy."

For the first time in all of David's sessions with the doctor he sees him squirm a little in his seat, not enough to be too suspicious but enough to pique the detective's interest.

"Miss Summers?"

"I guess," Mills drawls slowly giving the doctor a contemplative look, "I wouldn't know. I've been hearing her name all over this place though, what's her story then?"

"I can't discuss my other patients with you, Detective," the doctor answers evasively, "You've been here over a week now, how are you settling in?" he then asks, quickly changing the subject.

The investigator in David feel the urge to continue questioning — there was nothing like an cagey answer and a lack of eye contact to catch a detective's attention, but he isn't _that _interested in the girl's situation that he would go out of his way to find out about it. He also knows a shut-down when he sees it and the usually warm and open doctor's body language screams shut-down.

It's only in his yoga lesson the next day that David's mind comes back to his doctor's reaction to mentions of the blonde that sits off the side a couple of feet away from him.

"_One-Legged King Pigeon Pose _for one . . . two . . . three . . . _Namaste_. Breathing in through your nose . . . and out."

Mills sits watching the girl watch the other crazies stretch in awkward positions the instructor is demonstrating to them (one leans dangerously to his left and starts a domino effect --one--two-- three-- crazies down), except she isn't so much watching but more like staring in the general direction that they just happen to be in.

It's strange, even though her eyes flitted around the area as if she _was_ seeing what was in front of her. David notices the unfocussed quality they had to them like what she was focused on wasn't a gaggle of loons standing on one foot making strange noises, but something entirely different. And from where David sat, it also looked like her lips were moving in hushed conversation with herself.

Strange and a little creepy.

". . . two . . . three . . . _Namaste_."

Strangeness aside, it's enough to prompt him into building up a mental profile from what he knows about her, just like he would have done if he was still a homicide detective (if he was still had his normal life, if he hadn't found his wife's head in a box) investigating his latest case.

Buffy Summers: Caucasian, female, green eyed blonde who looked to be between eighteen and twenty-five years of age, probably closer to her teens.

And crazy.

David frowns as he searches his memory for any other piece of information he might have picked up but is surprised to realise even with all his eavesdropping, even with her name popping up in nearly every other conversation he had bothered to note, he knew very little about Buffy Summers.

He was definitely loosing his touch being locked up here in lala land.

". . . and breathing in through your nose . . . and out."

Looking over at her again as he stands with a the decision to at least sit closer to the blonde because maybe proximity would give him a few answers and a chance to listen in on her mutterings, but Mills finds a nurse attached to her arm guiding her through the sea of people bending over in inverted V poses, slowly making their way towards him.

". . . imagine the energy flowing out through your fingertips and into the ground . . . two . . . three . . . four."

He watches her weave through the throng, her mouth still moving in conversation though clearly not with the nurse beside her but it's when she is almost level with David, enough that he can smell of her chemically citrus smelling shampoo, that she turns to look at Mills with large green eyes that make David breath catch a little at their unexpected clarity.

"Have you seen my friends?" She asks with tilt of her head, "They wouldn't just disappear."

Everything is silent for a short (yet impossibly long) moment, his mouth hanging open a little in shock as he stares into her eyes that show a whole other world behind their green depths that he wasn't expecting to see.

It's strange, creepy and highly unnerving.

"Come along dear, Doctor Warren's waiting," the nurse says soothingly breaking the moment between the two as she gives David a puzzled look and draws the blonde's away from the speechless detective.

David stands in the middle of the lawn long after they leave and plays with his wife's ring in his right trouser pocket, unsure of what to make of his encounter with the green-eyed blonde, but it's enough to encourage David to unravel the intrigue that surrounds Buffy Summers.

_-_

"_Where are my friends?"  
"You're asking the wrong questions."  
"Make her speak."  
"I have no speech. No name. I live in the action of death, the blood cry, the penetrating wound. I am destruction. Absolute . . . alone."  
"The Slayer."  
"The first."_

"_I am not alone."_

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Four months. Thirteen days. Ten hours.

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Thanks again to my beta-reader OperaAngel and those that reviewed. Sorry it takes me so long between updates, I'm not the fastest writer I just hope you all stick with me. This might be re-written at a later date because I'm not all that happy with it, I'll let you know if you have to go back and re-read it.

_One-Legged King Pigeon Pose_: yogajournal . com / poses / 8631. cfm (minus the spaces)


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